finalflight | OPEN POST; [ HERLOCK SHOLMES / TGAA ]

[Slanting. He will have to listen more carefully to her speak to differentiate it — and that should be easy to do, he thinks, because his focus is so thoroughly bound around her presence right now that it should come naturally.

For instance, Sholmes is always observing. The faint difference between iris and scalera, he sees it. The fine lines in her lips. How each strand of hair falls to brush against her shoulders.

He frowns when she pulls away, feeling like he’s been deprived. Drops his hand to the edge of the chaise, instead, opening his mouth to protest in sound more than words, but then a small flame appears in his periphery. Summoned by a snap of her fingers.

Eyes widen. !!]

How…?

[hfdghff reaches for it]

[ she has turned halfway onto her back, to hold the pipe and the flame more easily. in her periphery, his reaching hand.

slides her gaze towards him, but doesn't put out the light or stop his reaching. he's a grown man. if he touches fire, he shouldn't be surprised of its heat. ]

Abracadabra.

This magic of yours?

[The flame flickers against fingertips as he brushes them through it, but the heat is expected and none too painful for a man who puts out candles with forefinger and thumb when he’s feeling impatient.

He doesn’t linger, anyway. Instead, with great effort and clamping down on his pipe with his teeth, he… straightens again. Gets in his knees. Turns, very wobbly, and leans forward with his elbows… against the edge of the chaise. Or her body, depending on how close she is.]

Show me how.

[ close. draped—slumped—as she is upon the chaise, though the nudging of his elbows has her shuffling in place to make room.

the centre of attention. Sprezzatura lives to be the centre of attention. now those abyssal eyes flick up to his, and she smiles thinly as the flame goes out. ]

Like this.

[ she does it again: snapping her fingers together, the friction of which seems to spark as a matchstick might on the strike paper. she breathes something out in nearly a hum, the incantation necessary slurred by the drug. nevertheless, she is well versed in this. a bead of flame again at her fingertips. ]

I merely... pluck at your world's Weave. You do not realize it, but its threads are everywhere, unseen. [ inhale... hold... exhale. pushing out her lower lip to direct the smoke in gentle, sensual billows around his face. a whisper: ] It is so easy.

[If he inhales more, at this rate, he might practically melt into the floor. And yet… he does, taking in her smoke, and the scent of her that isn’t related to the drug itself. It wafts around him, compels him to lift his pipe in an ask for her to heat it, too.]

Easy… and yet unknown to me. So much unknown to me.

[A land called Toril. A future with wife. Magic inherent in the air.]

Can’t you teach me? …dear girl.

[ she really... loves it when he calls her that. some stirring in her, low down in her belly, but high up in her heart, too. ]

Once, I tried. [ one of the very first things he had wanted then, too. in that prison... ] Hahh! You really are so like him, even half again so young.

[ what a bolstering feeling that is. her tail, up until now lying very limp over her hip and thus the edge of the chaise lounge, sways once. back, forth. Sprezzatura holds the flame beneath his pipe.

she wants... something. more than the slow, suffusing warmth the opium imparts.

something...

ah. she knows. the tiniest raising of her brows, here, and a muscle twitching her lips at each corner. barely notable at all. ]

This... is good.

[ the opium. ]

[What’s it like to know that you make the same decisions and express the same curiosities now as you will in the future? Well, maybe it’s comforting, to know that he will always seek knowledge — a bit like her own ambitions, or so it would seem.

Her tail. It… sways. His eyes drift to the movement, like prey drawn to the s-curves if a cobra. She heats his pipe and he nearly forgets about it.]

Hmm? …Ah.

[Puts more of his weight onto his elbows, exhaling. His lips do twitch into a smile when he realizes what she’s talking about, and his cheeks are still flushed despite the segue into magic.]

Mm, the opium? It certainly overcomes, doesn’t it?

[Nerves, worries, the will to move one’s limbs.]

Do you feel… better now?

Da. It overcomes me...

[ another gentle sway. every limb is full of warmth and heaviness, it's true; she can yet lift her head, but only in moments, and her tail does not want to lift even when she wills it to. her heartbeat now slow, yet her lungs tingling.

she curves towards her side again, facing him, craning her face closer to his—lips nearly touching his cheek on her passage to his ear.

breathes into it, ] Do you feel better?

[There’s something about that movement that passes by—so close and pausing at his ear—that stills him. Sholmes tries to focus on not overheating his pipe, to not let it linger for so long beneath her magical flame, yet once more does she make the gears in his mind grind to a halt. And he knows not what to attribute it to other than her breath fanning against him, knowing that he’s never been so salaciously close to a woman like this before. Realizing that a future version of himself has been, though, and likely even closer. Has felt those lips. Has, if he considers it rationally, felt even more as husband and wife.

Oh.

Ultimately, that’s really what does it.

He is a very bright shade of red, indeed, suddenly. And just as suddenly takes a long, long pull of his pipe, then exhales so quickly that he surely could not have enjoyed it. But this titillating realization has somehow surmounted even his blanketing high.]

I feel…

[Warm. Very warm.]

I don’t know if I should say.

You don't?

[ the damp heat of Sprezzatura's breath curling around his ear and down the cut of his collar. but she feels his, too; his drag on the opium pipe suddenly deep and his exhale hard.

he has thought of something. several things, if she knows him as well as she should. she sneaks an eager look beneath her lashes—they tickle his cheek—at pale skin turning... the most rewarding candy-pink.

please say. ]

Mmh. I am thinking I might know.

[ a sigh, one which wreathes them in the last of her smoke. she can't focus on the flame anymore. only— ] Herlock?

[His spine is ramrod straight to keep him unmoving, though the rest of him feels as if his muscles are loose clothing just hung onto his bones.

She thinks she knows? Then their thoughts so easily align on this matter, which mean they must do so with ease in the future — how simultaneously confounding and also a bit... He doesn't know what this is. Exciting? The knowledge tantalizing, like it's something he shouldn't have access to just yet?]

My thinking is uncouth, Ms Sapione. Tell me... do you consider me your husband now, or only the man as you will know him, in the future?

[ there it is: uncouth. through her courses the satisfaction of being exactly right, which the high and its hazy grip makes molasses-thick and thus deeply pleasurable.

she is so close to his ear that he will both hear and feel her exhale and its undercurrent of a laugh. ]

Wherever in his time I may be, this world is having only one Herlock Sholmes. [ the nuance to this is infinite, and were she actually sober then almost certainly that would be enough to quell her urges. instead, the opium dictates she tread deeper into these waters. to do so naked, so to speak. ] You will be my husband. Herlock Sholmes is my husband. You are Herlock Sholmes. All three are true. Why should you need to wait? Tell me what troubles you.

[There are absolutely knots in that logic that he cannot be arsed to unwind. He isn't sure if even he possesses the wherewithal for it now, accosted by the nearness of her laugh and the fog of the drug that disallows too much rational thought. Dulling the stern edges of inhibition.]

I... suppose so.

[So easily convinced. He's tempted to turn his head to meet her gaze, but instead, he simply swallows hard.]

You are very close. Salaciously so. [And still in her nightclothes, never mind his coat atop of it.] It makes one wonder how close I've gotten to you in the future, and how often he— I touch you. And...

[HIS FACE IS SO HOT]

Kiss you.

[ so much effort to keep her head aloft. she sinks back into the cushions with a sigh and tucks her arm beneath her cheek. her flushed cheek.

a trembling rhythm runs through her entire self: hands, arms, torso, legs. shivering kept inside the body. ]

You want to know how often? As often as he allows me to ask it. [ her voice gone low and husky with the intimacy of the moment. just a croak, a hoarseness. ] We are consummate.

[ ....... ]

Come up onto chaise, Herlock.

[An affirmation that causes all manner of less-than-proper images swirl about in his mind, dream-like. Despite practically given free rein to entertain them, there is still a sense that he’s being naughty for doing so, which in turn is just as strange — one, since when did he ever care about such propriety and two, have matters of physical intimacy ever filled his mind in this capacity?

He finally does look at her when she invites him up. The line of her body beneath coat and nightgown; the sway of her tail. Her lips moving as she speaks.

Well, maybe today is allowed to be exceptional in every way.

He pushes himself up, still flushed, but suddenly filled with determination. He manages to half-stand, trying to shuffle with one knee onto to chaise first. Wobbly. This is a large feat right now.]

I may require your… assistance-

Mm.

[ turning onto her back, she shuffles into the crease of the cushions and the back, lifts a leaden hand to brace him. the pipe falls from her lips and rolls beneath the chaise.

are her hands quivering? her lips? her dark eyes have blown wide now that he's stood to obey. ]

Come, now. There you are...

[ she's not really doing much besides crooning roughly at him while he struggles to stand. the hand on his wrist is barely holding on, and though she loops her tail around his leg, that's... well.

it's a selfish thing. not strictly a helpful one. ]

[Useless as that touch may be, it still bolsters him enough to increase his effort by the smallest of percentages. Just enough to move his center of gravity forward, and he… tilts. Hand grasping barely at his pipe, it might as well slip from his grip sooner rather than later.

Now, he’s… close. Leaning in, braced with one palm against the back of the chaise. Looking down at her. “Looming” would be a good word for it if his heart weren’t pattering so hard in his chest, detracting from the notion.]

You’ve… lost your pipe, dear girl.

[ uh-oh ]

[ half-exhale, half disbelieving laugh. ]

Going to get it for me?

[ the tuft of her tail flickers between Sholmes' thighs. precariously high. the muscle bound around his right leg like a tourniquet. she already longs for another draw to keep her mouth and lungs busy; bereft of the pipe, stupid things are coming out. ]

[Her… her tail. Tight, now.

UH OH

Doesn’t want to move, doesn’t know what to do, wants to touch, doesn’t know if he should, the drug is making it hard to think—]

Do you want me to?

[ no, she does not. presses her own thighs together as if to ward off the sudden throb of heat in between. she tries to be subtle about it, but there is no subtlety to Sprezzatura Vaux on an opium high.

takes some effort, but she props up on her elbow. ]

I borrow yours.

[ can he hear the breathy note coming into her tone? ]

[He’s Herlock Sholmes. Of course he does. He notes the effort of her thighs squeezing together, that note in her voice, the way her nightgown droops just enough for him to peer… at her clavicle. Lower, the way the fabric frames the fullness of her chest.]

Is that what you want?

[The words spill out slowly despite the tempo in his own chest.]

Just to smoke?

[ she shouldn't. ]

[ but she will! ]

I want you whimpering in my lap.

[Ah, yes, he thought so. He's still so clever, despite the drug, coming quickly to these conclusions. He was right. He's aaaaaaAAAAAAAAA]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

/2

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

/2

no subject

1/2